Author: ferylfiles

When I was a little kid going through my parents’ divorce, I think I had undiagnosed anxiety. I’d worry about everything. Holy crap, what if I grow up and become a homeless drug addict in New York City? (Nancy Reagan has a lot to answer for…) What if my house burns down? What if it’s all my fault? What if I’m a bad person? What if everybody at school thinks I’m dumb? My dad tried to help me process things with clever quips like “don’t sweat the small stuff” and “don’t make mountains out of mole hills.” I get the gist. And he wasn’t wrong. Mostly. I was taking really small things and blowing them out of proportion because they were things I could wrap my imagination around. The foundation of my family falling apart was so foreign I couldn’t begin to process it.

The enormity of grief and heartbreak at loss and death, whether its my family or innocent strangers living far away, is beyond my ability to fully grasp, integrate, process. Death is everything we strive against every day. We eat and sleep and laugh and love and fight like hell to live. And it comes any way. I talk about big waves and big feelings as an ocean. And so it is. Enormous. Vast. Powerful. Sure we can harness it, but it can be unruly and unmanagable and even devastating.

So how to move forward when the hurt is so big? I guess that’s when I start to sweat the small stuff after all, sorry Dad–but in the best possible ways I can. Watching the squirrel in my redbud tree cuss me out, seeing Seamus fall in love with every little girl that pays him attention, painting little rectangles of cotton paper with probably way too much watercolor paint, making bagels with my kid, having a movie night with my favorite gals, dancing to ZZ Tops’ “Legs”, texting my nearest and dearests, snuggling with my kitties, dinner parties with friends, knowing I made someone laugh.

My big brother, Todd, died last year on this date. His whole life he loved games, complex role-playing games. He knew the rules and the tiny nuances that made them interesting to players. Call of Cthulu became one of his very favorites to lead out. Mary shares the trait of being an excellent gamer and DM. (As I’ve only dabbled, I believe a Game Master leads out any variety of games while a Dungeon Master is specific to Dungeons and Dragons.) For both, it is the intricate personalities of the players, the questions, the world-building, the roll of the dice–little things that add up to the big thing. They both practice(d) a philosophy I embrace more and more every day. It’s the little things that matter the most. It’s the little things that make it all worthwhile. The little things end up being the biggest things. The little things give us tools to survive and navigate the really big ones.

TL:DR Life is short. The little things are the big things.

On the coast in the Pacific Northwest, we’re warned when we visit about Sneaker Waves. I capitalize because they’re lethal and worthy of respect. They don’t seem to be part of the regular rhythm of the ocean tides. I’m sure they are, just not in the sense readily visible to a beach-walker. They’re quick. They’re strong. They can wipe away people in a blink of an eye. They’re absolutely no joke. Today’s post is part PSA and part metaphor, I guess.

Just like the Oregon coast, grief has Sneaker Waves. I’ll be going along my day doing whatever task is in front of me or relaxing and reading a book. And then POW! Swept away into a fit of tears and pain so excruciating I can’t breathe. Overcome. Drowning in emotion. A song will come up on my shuffle; the leaves that we would rake together are falling and he’s not here to do our favorite fall chore; I cook alone, breakfast is yogurt and cold cereal; I walk to and from friends’ alone; I am unable to hold on to him when tragedies around the world rain down. I go from cheerful and hopeful to abject despair in a moment.

Fortunately, my rational brain knows I will not die from these Sneaker Waves. I also know I can’t walk further inland to avoid them. So I will both suffer and survive. But I will also become more adept at navigating them. Maybe that’s one of the reasons we’re to be gentle and gracious to one another. Who knows when somebody is being swept away by a Sneaker Wave and we might just be their lifeline.

Sorting through things can be really fraught or beautiful or both at the same time. I remember something my dad tried to reinforce throughout my life, “love people and use things, not the other way around.” It’s sound advice, but sometimes the people are gone and only the love and the things remain. What does a person do then? As a jewelry-maker, I’ve also thought about things like birthstones or how different gemstones have different meanings. Humans create meaning out of all kinds of things–cuneiform, hieroglyphs, letters, numbers, heirlooms, gifts, animals, emojis, even memes. I can’t speak to all of humanity, but I can speak to my experience.

I have a few things that belonged to my parents that are now mine and they are imbued with deep, personal meaning to me. They connect me to them in powerful ways. I have a turquoise and purple hair pick that belonged to my mom. My mom had naturally curly hair and I so desperately wanted curls as a young girl. I would have my mom, sister, aunties put my hair up in pin curls, rag curls, curlers. I got horrible permanents. Those soft natural waves that my mom and oldest brother had were exquisite. I longed for those. Anyone with curls knows that after a shower, it’s important to gently pick the wet hair so it can dry without snarls but also without brushing out the curls. I’m 46 and have enough gray and natural wave that together I’m starting to get those natural curls I always wanted. I pick my hair out after a shower just like my mom did and I get to use her hair pick. It’s a simple item made of heavy plastic. But it’s been around since I was at least 12 and I still get to use it just like she did and I think of her every morning.

In a like manner, I have a two-cup, Pyrex glass measuring cup that has a slight chip at the spout that belonged to my dad. He made marinades and sauces and all kinds of delicious things to pour over meats and things he would make for his kids. Dad was an unofficial gourmet chef who was particularly gifted at things like rare venison tenderloin with a special garlic sauce, prime rib, halibut cooked perfectly. He enjoyed good food. He enjoyed cooking. But what he really loved was when his kids came back home and he could prepare a feast. Eschewing anything in the pantry or deep freeze as pedestrian or second-tier quality, he would easily go out and buy the freshest, most choice ingredients to feed his kids when they came home. Some of this was learned from his parents who always shared their garden bounty and some of this was learned at the feet of our mom’s aunts and uncles who spelled hospitality with a capital “H.” Cooking special meals was one of his love languages and he was good at it. All four of us kids learned mastery of cooking and grilling and baking in some measure or another. And we all love to feed people to our very best ability. Every time I pull out that measuring cup, I am awash in the love my daddy had for his babies. This home is peppered with the same kinds of things from Bryan, Mary, Gil, Dot, and I can say, without hesitation, Sara, too–bottle openers, the cheese grater, garden tools, the signet ring I wear on my left middle finger that has an “L” in script that belonged to Gil, artwork by and photos of Mary, a sunshine yellow pot made by Sara. This is when things are more than things, they are reminders of the people and the love.

We are constantly making meaning. I know every time I go for a hike at Bennington or around Mill Creek or drive in the Palouse, I feel that. I see birds of prey, hawks and kites and osprey, and immediately think of Bryan. He and I would point them out on road trips and get a thrill seeing them sail over fields or edges of roads. Every one I see reminds me of him. Do I think Bryan’s soul or spirit is suddenly in the body of a hawk? No. I can’t prove it’s not, but I don’t think things work like that. What I do know is that I imagine Bryan soaring whether it’s down a mountain with skis on, in a sailboat in quick wind, or on a bicycle coasting really fast downhill. He used his body to feel the wind, the snow, the elements in all their forms. He thrilled at the speed and elegance of such movement, much like the grace and form of a hawk.

Symbols have power and meaning when they change our thinking or feeling. I don’t think crystals and gemstones heal us. I don’t think animals are reincarnations of our loved ones who have passed. I don’t think things have inherent powers. What I think does, however, is our minds and our thinking. Our thinking has power because it changes us. Like words by themselves don’t tell a story until they are connected together in the form of reading or listening, the same is true for these symbols around us.

Tip jar: https://venmo.com/u/Rebecca-Lubbers-1

I like the visual of a log jam in a river to describe how grief can feel sometimes. I’ve talked about feeling frozen about certain tasks and chores. And then the movement of one or two stubborn trees, a log changing angle, a tiny shift can equate to major change and things begin to flow again. The inside of my home is starting to take on some changes. These changes have been tangible, visible, physical, beautiful. They’re also internal.

There’s an internal battle of what is the right way to do this–live without Bryan, live with grief, live with a love and heartbreak so big sometimes I can’t breathe right. I want to honor him, us, Mary. I want to be loyal to his memory and to the life we deliberately built. Slowly, I’m giving myself permission to explore what that means without aggressively “shoulding” on myself. I’m giving myself permission to laugh, joke, smile, create, share, and love alone. It’s not linear and I do it better some days than others.

This weekend, I had friends over for a potluck and held a “happy” party. The garden was resplendent. The food my sister and all the guests cooked was delicious. The conversation was warm and lively. I have friends and family who continue to show up in all the ways that matter.

I’ve said a few times this week “I may be sad, but I’m not dead.” So I continue to live. I continue to hope. I continue to love. And I give myself permission to be happy again.

Over the course of the past week, I’ve been doing a lot of rearranging in this house. So much so, that I’ve managed to walk a couple miles per day going from room to room. Yes, a person can get their steps just doing chores and moving furniture. (What a workout!)

These literal and figurative steps have been really good. Don’t get me wrong, I cry a lot. A lot. The smell of his clothes. The touch of his favorite ski suit. The love notes I snuck into his ski bag so he would think of me on long trips. What to keep? What to donate? What to think about later? These are part of those steps.

The garden was my first step for me. And it has sustained me all these months. Fall is here and “winter is coming.” It is natural to begin to turn inward, into the house, into thoughts of steps to come. The notion of steps is really comforting. I don’t have to have it all figured out. Mary and I don’t have to do EVERYTHING all at once. We can take our time in a way that is appropriate and meaningful for us. Steps. Sometimes they’re baby steps. (“Baby steps, Bob.”) And sometimes they’re full-length strides.

I’m so grateful that we don’t have to walk alone. My heart is so full of the love, support, and caring we’ve gotten. I could not have done this alone. I could not have done it without Mary. I could not have done it without my family of blood and choice, my friends, my community.